“You’re still the first thing on my mind when I wake up and the last thing on my mind before I turn in,” I’ll say.
“What’s the point of it now?” you’ll ask, playing with your engagement ring.
“I’m a dark writer. Sulking is second nature to me,” I’ll say.
And time will once again rewind to the point where it all began.
It’s been several years since we parted ways, but my memories are as luscious as freshly baked bread. I might pretend to be over you, by deleting and blocking your number, butt dialling your number in a drunken haze, crossing over to the other side of the road and not looking at the number of every grey-coloured SUV that passes by. But it has taken me a long, long time to realise that I can only fool the world, not myself. I still remember the way you sleep, all curled up like a baby in a corner of the bed. The soft touch of your sun-kissed locks and how you dry them without fail lest you catch a cold, which you invariably do. Those thinking eyes that see the larger picture, and nothing but the larger picture. Your love for little things: zebra candies, coconut-flavoured Swiss rolls laced with ruby-coloured jam, exotic spirits and unexplored locales. The way you smoke, with such élan, like a great writer or playwright in an existential dilemma. And those few moments, when you love me, without a hint of malice. There are nights when I have such intense dreams, they almost seem like a movie: a pronounced blend of the fragmented past and an uncertain future.